THE LIFE-SIZE MODEL OF THE BLUE WHALE'S HEART
is large enough for kids to crawl through.
i've done some crawling too. on all fours once in a community theatre production
of the crucible, abigail's friend #3, my skirts caught under my knee
and i keep crawling.
that lady in the yellow room?
my babysitter. she gave me a worry stone to sleep with
under my pillow. i take it out,
smooth it to violet in my hands.
another recipe for crepe cake:
flip your stomach in a pan, throw in sprinkles, custard, and Your Precious Loneliness,
call poison control, induce vomiting, fall in love with the toxicologist, paint each other in icing, eat it, make babies, kill yourself for making babies.
this is a twelve-year study on curating your public image into a shape
of bewildered reader, forlorn locket, talking to
rabbits. thinking she's
what these kids don't get is how it is to meet up in ventricles and arteries,
the blanket forts that will mouth you whole
and wash you, giddy, up onshore hundreds of light years away and alone,
mini spacesuits fitted to each bone, the taste of iron
on your tongue.
there once was an artist who spent some considerable time
inside a taxidermal polar bear. this is what i've been wanting my whole life.
SJ Stout is a writer and actor currently living in Morgantown, WV where she is pursuing her masters degree in literature. Other poetry publications include Cider Press Review, Rust+Moth, and Connotation Press.